Free Springwar by Tom Deitz

clearer as he progressed. The cave walls changed, too,becoming smoother, squarer, and straighter, and he could hear voices now, and smell food. The scent of stables reached him as well, and then suddenly a tunnel opened to one side, down which he heard louder talk. A few paces farther on he passed an actual door, and then he was facing a much larger door indeed: gilded bronze twice as high as his head. Tunnels broke off to right and left. A sexless figure appeared from the right-hand one, to relieve him of Obyll, as another made to undo his mouth-mask.
    He intercepted the black-gloved hand and drew it down. “Zrill,” he repeated, and stopped where he was, arms folded, staring at the doors.
    “A moment,” the left one replied, and strode away.
    More quickly than he’d expected, both doors parted down the middle, and as soon as the gap was wide enough to admit him, Zrill stepped boldly through.
    Had he not known he was inside a cave, and many shots from civilization, Zrill would’ve sworn he was in some princeling’s pleasure dome. Marble surrounded him. The trickle of water reached his ears from rills hidden beneath bronze screens, exactly as in Barrax’s palace. The ceiling was a sweep of white sylk that continued down the walls to define chambers, all kept carefully away from the myriad beeswax candles and the odd glow-globe imported from Eron.
    A few people lolled about, but only a few. In spite of the luxury, the place had an austere feel, like a well-run military camp.
    Which it was.
    Zrill would’ve been impressed had he not been here before. And at that, there were a few things he’d forgotten, which always impressed him anew.
    One of which was the way that Barrax, though he was king of Ixti, could often be found lounging casually about as though he were some particularly well-clad and well-groomed off-duty soldier.
    The king saw him before Zrill was aware of his presence, and called the Horse Master by name, motioning him to the cushion opposite, in an alcove defined mostly by walls ofsylk. A tray of cold meat sat there, surrounded by a crescent of sauces arranged from sweet to sharp.
    Zrill met the king’s eyes briefly, then withdrew his ceremonial geen-claw dagger and, with a formal nod and bow, laid it on the carpet before him.
    “Step into my home,” Barrax said, already reaching for a brass wine ewer from which he filled a twin goblet to his own.
    “Majesty—”
    “You rode shots to meet me and, king or no, it is I who am in your debt.”
    Zrill nodded and sat down, cross-legged. Barrax’s face was intense. And though well combed, his black hair was in need of trimming.
    A pause for the ritual sip of peace, and for another to slake his thirst, and Zrill set down the goblet. “This news shouldn’t wait,” he began. “In short, Prince Kraxxi has returned.”
    Barrax tensed, and his eyes flashed, but he showed no other reaction—which surprised Zrill. “Returned,” he mused. “Was that the word you would choose?”
    Zrill nodded. “He came out of the Flat five sunsets back. To my eternal regret, there was no way I could get away until now. Lynnz made me watch.”
    “Watch?”
    “The … preparation. He treated him well—fed him, bathed him, kept him warm, and gave him fine clothes—but denied him sleep.”
    “For no reason?”
    “Maybe for a reason. Kraxxi was there by choice, that much was clear. He was seeking you. The only thing he would say, when put to any question, was, ‘I will speak only to my father.’”
    Barrax snorted with laughter. “And of course Lynnz sent messengers immediately to the court at Ixtianos, where he presumes I am.”
    Zrill dared a chuckle of his own, having had some version of this conversation before. “Where he indeed presumes you are. Where a well-paid actor lives in luxury before he—”
    “Not dies,” Barrax finished for him. “Is put to sea and told to sail south and not return.”
    “Have any?”
    “None of which one might speak.” Barrax